A Little Bedtime Story
by foggybythebay
Summary: Our favorite bookworm finds herself with golden ringlets. Can you guess who the 3 bears are? This Goldilocks finds that sometimes "Perfect" isn't always "Just Right." Not my usual genre or characters. Saucy one-shot, now rated T with of a touch of lime.


**A Bedtime Story**

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**_Setting_**_: AU, sometime after DH, where none of the main characters have married and the world is safe from darkness and Voldy. Ron, Harry & Draco, have found an unlikely friendship, able to overlook their more than rocky past, realizing they possess some reluctant admiration for their former rivals. Now their lives are intertwined due to the shocking discovery that they've got something very smart in common._

**_Rating: R_**_, a silly fluff piece with a hint of lime to make you smile... Please don't read if you have particularly delicate sensibilities. There's lots of limey innuendo here._

**_Disclaimer:_**_These character aren't mine. In fact, I don't even usually play with them. They forced me to give them a little break from the steamy, angst-ridden pieces on Harmione & Draco. Well, now that this author's done, I'm going back to *ahem* read some more angsty stuff._

_Enjoy!

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**_~ When Goldilocks Discovers that Perfection Isn't Always "Just Right" ~_**

Hermione knows she's dreaming. She tosses in her bed, trying to make the image go away, but there she is, looking at her ridiculous self, clad in a pretty, little, blue, pouffy party dress with short pouffy sleeves to match. She is wearing white knee-hi socks like those of Alice. You know... in Wonderland? The outfit even comes complete with black patent-leather Mary-Janes.

This can only be a dream, she assures herself. After all, why in Merlin's beard would she be in possession of the glossiest, bounciest, blonde curls known to Muggle-bornes this side of Daigon Alley?

At the sight of yet another head of curls, she finds herself angry at... well, herself!

_I couldn't make myself Alice in Wonderland, now could I? she thinks reproachfully at her subconscious. On no! I couldn't give myself even one strand of those straight, gorgeous, blonde locks, tucked back with the most conservative of black headbands! Of course, my hair would have to be the unruly equivalent of Shirley Temple's in one of her jolly old musicals._

_Well, let's have it then, Oh-Great-ID of my psychic apparatus! On with the show,_ she groans grumpily in her sleep as she watches her silly dream-self skip merrily along the rocky path toward the Forbidden Forest. Her sleeping-self is irritated beyond measure at her girly-girlishness.

_I wonder what I had to drink during my girls' night out this evening that is affecting me this way? Or, did Ginny put something in my drink..._

Suddenly, a great growl in her stomach stops her cold in her tracks.

"Oh, I am so rumbly in my tummy!" she finds herself exclaiming in her dream. Her sleeping-self is downright horrified and red-faced embarrassed at her baby-talk. "I'm lost and wish I could find my way back home!"

She watches as her dream-self fearlessly continues toward the forest, quite, quite sure of herself that it is through _this_ darkness that she will be able to find her way home, where she absolutely knows there is ample food to satisfy her hunger.

_Watch out! _Hermione finds herself thinking as she sees her dream-self cautiously tiptoe past the Whomping Willow. She even waves a cheery hello to the forest's centaur, Firenze, who stands stock-still, staring at her bizarre ensemble with open-mouthed shock. She is extra careful to avoid Aragog's enormous web and his numerous descendants. So careful, in fact, that she finds herself meandering much farther into the woods than necessary. It seems a good many hours that she is wandering lost among the many foreboding, spindly trees. About to lose all hope, and threatening to dissolve in complete and utter despair, she at last spots telltale curling smoke coming from what could only be...

a chimney!

"Oh! It's a little house in the woods!" her dream-self exclaims, hopping up and down, clapping excitedly, causing her slumbering self to practically roll her eyeballs. _Pretty, freakishly scary, dark magical woods, imbecile!_

As her dream-self draws closer to the smoke and its mandatory chimney, she finds it attached to a little cottage that can only be described as bedtime story quaint.

_Hmmmm... this seems like a familiar story _, sleeping Hermione thinks, settling deeper into her covers.

She finds herself fairly flying to the front door of the little abode, decidedly disappointed to discover that it is not indeed made of gingerbread and candy as she expected. Now, without any immediate way to assuage her grumbling emptiness, she fervently hopes, that within this little place resides a friendly, and to be on the safe side, _vegetarian _witch who will welcome her to repast at her table.

Hermione knocks boldly upon the solid wooden door.

Tap-a-Tap-Tap!

Tap-a-Tap-Tap!

With the final rap of her knuckles, the front door creaks open and a wondrous smell wafts outside, beckoning her in.

"Hello? Hello? Is anyone home?" Hermione calls, brushing an errant blonde curl off of her forehead.

_Silly, stupid, springy, cute, blonde hair!_

"I'm hungry and have lost my way," she says speaking so she might be heard, all the while making her way inside toward the tempting smell. "Might you have anything for me to eat?"

There is no answer, but she beholds three bowls on a higher than normal tabletop, next to the coziest of kitchens that she has ever seen. She stealthily makes her way to the first bowl. It is red and so big that both her hands can't span it. She looks around to see if anyone is watching. Finding no one's eyes upon her, she dips her finger in and tastes.

_Ewww! Yuck! Is THAT the enticing smell? I absolutely detest porridge. I must be desperately starving to contemplate eating it _, her sleeping-self decides.

"Oh my! That is much, much too sweet! And much too big a helping for a girl like me!' her dream-self squeals, eliciting a squeamish giggle from her sleeping form.

She watches her dream-self cautiously move over to the next bowl. Before dipping her finger in, she quite stealthily looks around again as she takes a deep whiff of the bowl's contents. Spicy and aromatic, she registers in her mind, frowning a little. Continuing to see no movement in the house, she curls up some of this porridge in her index finger and brings it between her lips. She slowly runs her tongue around the inside of her mouth, discovering its tartness, perhaps a bit too much for her liking, as though someone put applesauce made of green apples and cinnamon into it. It tastes... it tastes... well... different, she finally determines.

"Too different, maybe, a little too spicy and tart for me," she murmurs in consideration. She moves reluctantly away, still somewhat intrigued by the second bowl's contents. She grows bolder in her hunger, though, her legs kick at air as she wriggles onto the chair in front of the last bowl which glints golden in the sunlight.

Even before tasting what is inside, she knows just how perfectly delectable the contents here will be in her mouth.

"Ah, just the right amount of cream and sugar," she sighs contentedly as she quickly gobbles it all up. In a most lady-like fashion, of course!

She is chagrined to discover that even though the golden bowl is licked clean enough to show it possesses a little lightening bolt crack on its side, she is still hungry. Though aghast at her gluttony, she decides she needs more sustenance for her long journey home. So, eschewing the first bowl completely, she makes up her mind to dip a little more into the second bowl of tartness and spice. A quarter of the way through, though, she realizes she very much likes the newness of the spicy, tangy sensation in her mouth.

At last satisfied, she decides to have a look around, a bit curious about the inhabitants of the little house. Obviously, there are three proprietors and judging from the decor, there are not witches, but wizards who live in this place. The colors are too masculine, the furniture, too stout. The shelving, too tall. The television, too... wide.

There are three distinctly different chairs in the sitting room and they all look equally inviting to a very tired girl.

"Oh, but my legs are soooo tired," her dream-self says with a little girl whine.

_What is with my highly irritating behavior? _Hermione thinks reproachfully at her dream-self. And who in all of the wizarding world am I talking to?

Despite this irritation, she curiously returns her attention to her dream and finds herself attempting to sit in the first chair. It is a garish, orange upholstered recliner, smack dab in the center of the room. Tacky as all get out.

"Ohhhmph!"

She falls right into it, almost as though it rudely made a grab for her.

"Ugh! This... is... much... too... enveloping!" Hermione hears her muffled voice wail as she watches herself squirm to extract herself from the bowels of the chair.

_At last! A word from the dictionary _, Hermione thinks, pleased with the adjective. She's amused to find her dream-self struggling to release herself from the far too laid-back, ginger-colored Laz-y-Boy. She spies only a tangle of legs and arms poking from between the fat cushions. From the side it looks as if the recliner is trying to eat her alive! Finally clawing her way out, she casts a disdainful look at the chair's overstuffed arms, while patting down her mussed curls. She moves away without a second glance, much miffed at the audacity of the chair to violate her person.

Looking for an alternative resting place, she spots one near the bookshelves, a heavenly looking, emerald green leather club chair. It is sleek in its lines, calling her to sit and rest a spell. It is set deep amidst the columns of the cozy home library, so enticing to a bookish miss, like her. She gives in to the temptation and slides into it, finding it exquisitely cool at first. She discovers the leather cleverly molds itself to her every curve, warming to the touch of the bare skin on the back of her thighs, calves, neck and arms, inviting her to indulge in the most wicked of....

Her eyes widen as she leaps from her sitting positing, pushing herself up using the strong... and... _uh _... solid arms of the chair as leverage.

"Oh! Much too disturbingly intimate for me!" she says with a pout.

Is she imagining that the chair is smirking at her, challenging her to return? A sly smile plays at her lips as she gives the verdant armchair a heavy-lidded look. She saunters a little closer, allowing her fingers to stroke along the contours of its pin-cushioned back before she moves her attention to the last chair in the room. Her eyes rest on the most picture perfect of settees and its matching ottoman, both sitting in the sunniest part of the little room.

She just about dances toward it, its fabric matching the Gryffindor gold. She places herself in it cautiously, for she is unsure exactly what to expect considering her last two encounters. To her immense relief, it supports her just right. As she carefully leans back upon it, something slips out from behind her, but she is unworried. She sees that while this perfect chair supports, she has the ultimate freedom to do as she likes, and very comfortably, too. She is very content now to put her legs up and look about her, fairly certain that she will neither be consumed, nor molested by her seat of choice.

Too soon, however, she finds her eyelids drooping, and she tells herself she just needs a tiny nap before she leaves this sweet little place in order to find her way home. She shifts and twists, curls up and turns, but the perfectly perfect chair she is sitting in doesn't afford her a way to comfortably rest.

Desperate to lay down, she casts her eyes about the room to discover a little alcove and a spiral staircase that leads to another level.

The bedroom, maybe?

Too tired to contemplate the consequences of putting herself in a situation that might present her alone with three unknown wizards, she moves to the alcove. As she moves upward, she doesn't realize that in her efforts to get comfortable, she's slipped her feet out of, and discarded, her Mary Janes on two different steps on the spiral staircase.

Upon entering the room above, she is delighted to discover three perfectly lovely beds from which she can choose to lay down for a little respite.

The first is so high off the ground she will have to climb into it if she chooses to indulge in it. It is a robust bed, she decides. It has a plain, but well-made, wooden frame, but the coloring of the bedding matches too closely to that of the recliner and the bowl, that she is on high alert. She catches her lip between her teeth, wondering if she should risk trying it since it seems they might all belong to the same owner. Curious, she uses both hands to push against the worn quilted bedcover. Immediately, as though covered by an invisibility cloak, both her hands disappear into the mattress. She gasps at how suddenly her fingers are forced motionless, surrounded and trapped by the mattress's soft batting. Leveraging a sock-covered foot against the bottom of the bed frame, she uses her entire body's strength to pull against the sucking of the mattress, thus succeeding to remove her hands from the seemingly carnivorous bed.

"No! No! Much, much too soft,'" she tsk's tsk's. "I just might suffocate if I try to go in there!"

As she makes this deduction, her index finger hooks the sock just under her left knee and she peels it off. Unaware of what she's doing, she hangs her stocking on the footboard of the plain wooden frame. With the little task done, and with one foot bare and the other still ensconced in soft white cotton, she moves quickly away to a far more enticing specimen of bed.

The coverlet's iridescence appears something between silver and black, silky smooth and shiny. The material very nearly undulates at the slightest movement of her hand. Again disturbing, but mesmerizing. She quickly flips back the cover, expecting something, perhaps even sinister, lying beneath. She gasps her surprise, finding herself caressing the softness of very expensive, 1,200 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets of the greenest hue. She lays her hand against the mattress, sliding one palm teasingly over the silkiness covering the firmness beneath. The bed frame is modern, a sleek, pewter-colored steel, unforgiving in its strength, but yielding when necessary, too. She finds it very much like the club chair. The exquisite materials compel her to touch and stroke. The dark allure of the whole of it together calling her, inviting her...

_Hmmmmm.... _She steps away. Her fingers move to rid herself of the remaining, prim, white sock which she holds as her gaze moves to the final bed. Scarlet and gold. Just the sight of it makes her feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Her dream-self smiles.

Her sleeping self-smiles.

The sight before her is, after all, the embodiment of sleeping chamber perfection, presented in what looks like the strongest of ornate canopy bed frames. It is equipped with the most softly inviting pillows, piled high and completely self-adjustable for the sleeper. With a cocked eyebrow, she thinks naughtily of exactly what else can be done with those pillows. The thought of the quiet strength of this bed, fierce in it's need to protect all within it, like the Gryffindor lion, is so inviting that instead of just placing a hand against it, she throws herself upon its magnificence. Discovering for herself the puffiest of goose-down comforters, able to warm without overheating. She imagines it's the most perfect place to burrow into, curl up, and read a book before falling into a perfectly dreamless sleep.

Hermione notices her dream-state-self starting to fall into her own similar slumbering state. So she engages her dream-self in a bit of a psychic push-and-pull about whether or not she should stay surrounded by the scarlet and gold.

_Get up! _Hermione commands her dream-self. _Think about it a bit more! _She wriggles her sleeping body, as though trying to pull her dream-self up and out.

Something slips and she returns to her dream. Somewhere between here and there, she's lost her other sock. Now her dream-self is empty-handed and out of the bed of perfection. She's standing a foot away from her two choices. Her blonde curls bounce absurdly, as her gaze undecidedly flicks between the sensual temptation of the silken jade, silver-black sheets, and the warm comfort of the scarlet, gold comforter. Her dream-self is now clearly unsure about which one she wants to use for her nap.

Suddenly, from below, she hears the heavy creak of the front door opening wider and a bellowing voice shakes the rafters.

"Bullocks! I'm starving! I hope our porridge has cooled enough for us to eat!"

Dream-state Hermione dashes under the nearest covers, hiding herself, quaking with fear or... anticipation? Ensconced in absolute darkness, she suddenly realizes that the bed her subconscious ultimately chooses is, well... the one _just right _for her.

And just like that, her sleeping-self knows, having this surprising epiphany, her dream-self promptly falls asleep for that long-awaited nap.

Hermione sighs impatiently. She too, doesn't know which bed it was that she leapt into. Since there is little she can do about it, she decides she can indulge in the entertainment and the amusement of simply watching her ludicrous dream play itself out.

"Oh, do shut up, Ron! You sound far too much like an overbearing, gruff, character in a Muggle bedtime story that Dudley liked far too much!" shouts one annoyed, caffeine-deprived, and starving Harry Potter.

Ronald Weasley and Draco Malfoy enter the cottage exchanging confused looks.

"He's gone mental from hunger," whispers Ron in the platinum blond's ear. The two share a muffled snigger and both shrug. Harry glares at them from behind his spectacles, causing Draco to shoot a similar request at Ron.

""Yes, whatever the hell Potty says, Weaselby. Please do shut it!" Malfoy's casual use of old school-boy nicknames, thoughtful in their thoughtlessness, is not taken as poorly as they once had been by the other two. These once-epithets have since evolved from barbs to affection, their sting dulled from years of overuse. Besides, it wouldn't do for a seemingly emotionless prat like Malfoy, too used to hiding his more tender feelings, to expose himself so thoroughly as to dare call these two gits by their first names, especially at such a crucial time in their lives!

"Besides, I haven't had my coffee yet today, and my head is beginning to pound," continues Malfoy, gracefully brushing some non-existent lint off his olive-green cashmere sweater. "Tell me, Weasel, you did remember to make the coffee this morning?!" The snide inquiry suddenly reminds Ron of something and he scrambles into the kitchen. Apparently, the three are all good enough friends, or frienemies, to be co-habitating in such a tiny space.

After all, these are not men of the dwarf-sized variety. These men are nearly as tall as... well... Grizzlies on their hind legs.

Sleeping-Hermione sighs again.

_Well, seriously! Enough hints already. This is preposterous enough as it is! Get on with it, _she scolds herself.

"Why does _he _have to live here?" Ron loudly whines to Harry, "thinking he's the right prince of this miniature castle, he does. It's completely bonkers that the three of us can share this space with him ordering us about like common house-elves." The sound of Ron in the kitchen tinkering with a Muggle coffee maker is evident.

"Malfoy's the one who owns this place, Ron. And careful what you say about house-elves. It might automatically throw you out of the running," Harry says with patient exasperation, having explained millions of times before. "It's only temporary, anyway, until Hermione decides today."

"As if _he's _a real contender, Potter," Malfoy whispers confidentially to He-Who-Was-Formerly-Known-As-The-Chosen-One.

Harry tries to hide his whole-hearted agreement.

Sleeping-Hermione furrows her brows in consternation. Is she _herself _in this? _What _are they going on about?

The sound of two chairs' legs groaning reluctantly against the oak floor makes its way into her dream.

"Hey!" shouts a voice that sounds like Harry, "Someone's been eating my porridge! And, it's all gone!"

The force of Harry's last word is like that of someone blasting a spell specifically directed at a _certain_someone.

"Formulating more _un_biased opinions of me, Potter?" drawls Malfoy lazily, hiding how insulted he is that the golden boy of Gryffindor still hasn't fully come around to trusting him, even after all that he's done to help The Order's cause. Not just that, but to also lead him and Weasel through the Auror's tests - seeing as none of them could trust themselves around Hermione these days.

The trio's more current bearish behavior toward one another stems from recent revelations by the others of having certain amorous _feelings _for one certain unique Gryffindor smarty-pants. This is due to their unchecked, blubbering confessions during one unfortunate drunken night mourning the loss of a championship by their favored Quidditch team, as well as, the loss of a great many galleons to their highly amused, and now quite wealthy friend, Blaise Zabini.

Each man presently in the house had silently hoped the others were too far into their cups to remember their soulful, though inebriated, professions of undying devotion to one former Gryffindor Head Girl. These wishes would go unfulilled, however, as it was exactly these divulgences that each remembered upon recovering sobriety the following morning.

This further explains the constant tension between the three, who might otherwise have been quite winning friends considering all they'd gone through, and saved each other from, in the last five years. Moreover, it was likely the insults between them could be attributed to the strain of their current situation, a competition of sorts. That is, finding out who exactly the alpha male was in this particular tri-wizard group.

Malfoy looks down into his bowl, ready to take in his own spoonful but ends up only seeing red, too.

"_ Someone's _had at it at mine, too!" the sexy, silver-eyed Slytherin growls, menacingly, "and it's nearly half gone!"

The two wizards at the table turn slowly in unison to stare accusingly at the redhead in the kitchen, who is also known to have a hollow leg in relation to food. Completely unaware, Ron turns on the coffeepot and lumbers over to his seat which is in front of his humungous bowl of barely touched porridge. It's not until he's tucked away more than half of his inordinately large meal that he finally feels the weight of his counterparts' combined angry gazes.

"Wha-?" His mouth, half-full of sickly sweet porridge when he realizes they're glaring at him. "Well, then, don't look at me, mates! I was with you gits the whole time we were gone, wasn't I?"

Harry and Malfoy look at each other annoyed, but each reluctantly makes his silent nod of agreement. Malfoy's blond bangs fall onto his forehead as he leans over to eat the remnants of his no longer appetizing meal. Harry pushes away from the table to retrieve his wand in an attempt to make himself another bowl, being careful not to overheat it this time.

None of them has mastered the art of the "cooling of food" spell that Hermione had memorized long before she even stepped on the Hogwarts Express their first year. Not a surprise since, despite their vast knowledge of far more powerful magic, they couldn't even conjure up anything more palate-pleasing than mere porridge between them.

_At least they'd each figured out how to do it to their own liking, _sleeping-Hermione thinks, shaking her head.

It takes quite a bit of time for them to finish their breakfasts, cranky as they all are. This is compounded by Ron who is already making noises about lunch and how he doesn't want porridge again for his second meal.

"Pour us some coffee, Ronald, and cease whining," orders Malfoy imperiously, turning to Harry, inquiring if the Quidditch match might be on the new wizard-tele now. The two move to the other room while Ron goes to get the much needed caffeine that he knows will smooth his friends' ruffled feathers. He places the tray on the small coffee table centered midway between the three chairs.

Ron moves to go to sit on his own throne, but stops just short of falling down backwards. He manages to flail his way back up to standing straight again, scratching his head, knowing he hadn't left his Laz-y-Boy in full recline. He points at the orange monstrosity as he announces, "You know, I think _someone's _been sitting in my chair!"

Malfoy glares at it, wishing he could hex it in some way so that one of them would be compelled to finally touch it long enough to throw it out of the house. It was just so atrocious, but to touch it was simply too repugnant an idea. To calm himself, Malfoy runs his own hand against his most favored seat in the house. The leather is surprisingly warm beneath his cool touch.

"Hmmmm....I do believe someone's been sitting in my chair, as well. Potter?" He looks up curiously at Harry who is tilting his head quizzically while looking at his own chair.

Harry turns his handsomely chiseled face to his friends and says, "I know someone's been sitting in my chair! I left a pillow perfectly in the center of it, didn't I? And now that pillow is on the floor!" He points accusingly at the scarlet-colored pouf, equipped with tassel, propped against the leg of the coffee table.

The three stare at the crimson pillow.

"Blimey, I think someone's been inside the house," Ron whispers incredulously.

"Nothing like stating the obvious, Weasel," sneers Malfoy. "The question, is, _is _that someone _still _here?"

The three heads swivel to the hidden alcove and the spiral staircase. Wands drawn, they move, Harry first, then Draco, and lastly Ron, up the winding staircase. Harry is the first to encounter something odd. He picks up a small, black leather shoe on the fifth step up, passing another on the tenth step.

Heedless to harm, Harry runs into their shared room, staring incredulously at his bed. So distraught at the disarray, he dashes to it to straighten the pillows. His expression is one of extreme upset as he glares at his friends. He is shaking with near fury, but finally calms when he discovers a white stocking amidst the jumble. Dumbfounded, he holds it up, declaring wondrously, "Someone's been sleeping in my bed!"

Ron runs to his bed, hoping to find a similar treasure in it, but is disappointed to see the pair of the one in Harry's hand neatly draped on the footboard, with not even a wrinkle on the quilt.

"I don't think _anyone's _been sleeping in my bed," he moans, dejectedly.

Malfoy moves closer to the quietly breathing _someone _or _something _(you never know in _this _forest) under his bedcovers.

"I think someone's been sleeping in my bed and lucky for us, they're still there," he whispers, holding up one finger to his lips, indicating quiet from his roommates.

As he bends to grasp hold of the cover, he spies a bit of bright blue fabric peeking from under the coverlet. At the sight of it, Draco rediscovers his signature Malfoy smirk. After all, he _knows _this dress. With a deft flip of his wrist, he pulls the cover. Due to its silky nature, it slides off easily, uncovering the still slumbering intruder.

Still caught in her dream, Hermione stretches her prone form, knowing at last that her mind's story has come to an end. She waits now for the inevitable, either her wakefulness, or the welcome, more peaceful oblivion of a deeper sleep state.

"Well, well, if it isn't Granger, sleeping here in my bed." The words are triumphant. Malfoy's soft velvet soft voice, smooth as the silk under her cheek, breaks the spell of her dream-filled slumber.

She opens her eyes, which widen at the unexpected sight of _the _actual Draco Malfoy standing before her, his wand drawn. In fact, all three men have their wands up and at the ready.

_And it has nothing to do with the dress I'm wearing and what my skirts are, or are not covering at this precise moment, _Hermione smirks despite herself.

She remembers, now, a remark she made about men and their wands while she was three sheets to the wind last night at the club with her girl friends.

"Wands are only as powerful as the wizards who use them," she'd laughed, holding up her firewhisky as though aiming a wand. "Some wizards just like to boast that theirs are bigger and better than others." The ladies each had a hearty belly laugh at that one.

Now isn't it just ironic that she finds herself in a most awkward situation, knowing full well which one of _these_three is the most powerful wizard with his... wand? And not just that, but to also be in the auspicious position to know just which one is a close second?

_Ugh, damn Ginny for being the designated driver! This is the third time she's done this to me, and she's OUT! _Hermione thinks to herself, licking her lips unconsciously at the sight before her.

"You've made your decision, then?" Malfoy's quiet, hopeful question breaks her fuming. His eyes, flash with desire, watching the innocent movements at her mouth.

The three men all stare at her, waiting. The blond one takes her presence in his bed as her final answer. He slides over to sit beside her supine form, surreptitiously smoothing down her skirts, as the other two try desperately to hide their multiple disappointments.

The dark-haired boy looks particularly upset at this intimacy. It twists at Hermione's heart to see him this way, but she is distracted from the perfectly tragic image her green-eyed Gryffindor god displays. Her attention is, instead, caught by Draco, whose fingers play possessively in her now coffee-colored tresses, spreading the strands against the luminous green of his bed sheets beneath her.

Before nodding her answer, Hermione realizes she quite desperately needs to know what _exactly _is happening.

When he feels her hand at his wrist, his fingers halt their movements. Sensing something important, Draco lowers his ear just the slightest bit closer to her mouth.

"Tell me one thing, Draco," she breathes for him only. "Is this real? Or has this been happening inside my head?"

She watches his silver eyes flicker with amusement and watches mirth move to a more heated, molten gaze. Glowing there, unspoken in their depths, lays the sureness of his recently declared love and admiration for her.

His hand moves to gently cradle her jaw in his palm. His thumb caresses her slightly pouting, bottom lip. He looks ready to move in for the winning kiss, but before he claims her as his, he quietly answers her question.

"Of course it is happening inside your head, love. But, Hermione, why on earth should that mean that it is not real?'"

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_* For my _Choices_ fans, apologies, this one-shot grabbed me, shook me up, and wouldn't let go until I wrote it.  
**Please don't flame me if you like Ron. He and I have an agreement which allowed me to write this.  
***A note to you HP fans: I know this was silliness and so off-cannon. But it was delicious to write. Please let me know if I should stay out of this particular toy box, or if you want more DM/HG from me._

_~Points shyly at the review button.... Thanks bunches for your thoughts :)~_


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